


Helplessness

by owlaholic68



Series: Evil Karma Carla [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 2
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Evil, Blood and Injury, Dissociation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 14:58:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13503942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlaholic68/pseuds/owlaholic68
Summary: In the days and weeks before the mission to the Oil Rig, things seem to be going wrong right and left.Suspicious gifts, a hostage situation, a short-lived companion, and a breakdown.





	1. Chapter 1

Carla is finishing up business with Metzger, violent business in the slave pens, business she doesn’t want Lenny to get caught up in. He’s sitting on a bench outside the Slaver’s Guild in the Den, Dogmeat at his feet for protection. 

“Excuse me,” an older woman approaches Lenny. She’s holding a bowl covered with a dish towel. 

“Um, h-hello?” he says. Lenny vaguely recognizes her; she must be one of the citizens of the Den. 

The woman presses the bowl into his hands. “You look too skinny, dear. Now come on and eat up, it’s one of Mom’s specials.” She stacks a spoon and napkin on top of the bowl, looking at him expectantly until he uncovers the bowl. A fragrant and warm soup is inside, filled with chunks of vegetables and meat. 

“Thank you?” Lenny says, confused. He takes a sip of the soup. It’s delicious, spices and herbs warming up an otherwise plain dish. “This is a-amazing.” 

“No problem,” she says, patting him on the shoulder. “Now finish that up, and keep the bowl. Consider it on the house.” With a friendly nod, she walks away. 

An hour later, Lenny has finished the soup. The sun is starting to set, and he gets a little nervous about being in the dark by himself until Carla walks out of the Slaver’s Guild. Lenny jumps to his feet, the empty bowl in his hands. Carla raises an eyebrow at it. 

“Good, you already ate dinner,” she says. They start walking back towards the Highwayman. “Smitty should be done with that part now.” She frowns at him, brow furrowed. “I didn’t think you had any money on you. How did you get dinner?” 

Lenny sticks to her side as they pass through a more dangerous area of the Den. Dogmeat trails behind them, sniffing at some trash on the ground. “An old w-woman, Mom I-I think, gave-she gave it to m-me.” 

“Hm.” Carla shrugs. “That was awful nice of her, Len. Now come on,” she wraps an arm around his bony shoulders, “I want to reach Klamath before midnight.” 

* * *

This keeps happening. Whenever Carla’s not paying attention, people slip gifts to Lenny. Food, stimpacks, anything that could be useful to them. 

“I’ve got some .223 ammo stockpiled for you in the back,” Mai Da Chiang says. They’re standing in the Red 888 Guns shop, surrounded by neatly organized boxes of guns and armor. The owner of the shop is surrounded by several bodyguards, all who have their eyes trained on Carla. She’s gained a reputation in Chinatown, and not a good one. 

“Thanks, I’ve really been running low,” Carla says. “I’m actually worried about the condition of my pistol, I think all of this action might be wearing it down.” There’s an underlying implication to that statement, of course, one which everyone in the room decides to ignore. 

Mai nods to one of his guards to fetch the ammunition. “Actually, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.” He nervously glances at Lenny, a telltale gesture that makes Carla frown. “You’ve been a loyal customer, Carla. And well, you see a lot of action. And I know your friend there doesn’t get involved, but still…” He trails off and grabs something from underneath the counter, plopping it onto the table. 

Lenny peeks around Carla’s shoulder to see. It’s a set of light combat armor, just the top half, but in good condition. His eyes widen. A piece like that, even with the bottom half missing, could still go for several hundred dollars.

“Why are you giving this to me?” Carla bluntly asks. “Len doesn’t fight.” 

“But you do,” Mai argues. “And we just want to make sure that no accidents happen. Stray bullets, grenade getting a little too close, you know. Just in case. We don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” he quickly says, hands raised to shoulder height at Carla’s suspicious glare, “it’s just in our best interests to keep you safe. Both of you.” 

There’s an implication there too, one that everybody catches. News of Lenny’s kidnapping and Carla’s subsequent berserk rage had spread even this far from New Reno. The message is clear: to keep Carla sane and to keep the residents of Chinatown protected from her wrath, Lenny needed to remain safe. And if things turned bad in town, at least those who had showed themselves to be invested in his well-being would find themselves on Carla’s ‘good’ list. 

“I see,” she slowly says. She reaches forward to pick up the combat armor and Mai flinches as she gets a little too close. Carla turns over the armor, inspecting it from all angles. Then she shrugs and passes it to Lenny. “I don’t like owing people. Next time we’re back in town, give me something to do to return the favor.” 

Mai nods, bowing shallowly to her, his eyes skittering to the side under her scrutiny. “Of course.” 

They complete their transaction for the ammunition, then they store their purchases in the trunk of the Highwayman before they eat dinner.

“I don't like it,” Carla mutters, chin in her hand. 

Lenny looks up from his bowl of noodles. He raises an inquisitive eyebrow. 

“The armor, I don't like it,” Carla explains. “It was a nice gift, but it implies,” she sighs, “It implies that I can't take care of you.” She stabs her chopsticks into her noodles, twisting them around like she’d twist a knife in a man’s neck to break his spinal cord. 

Lenny makes no comment: an angry Carla is not one he wants to mess with. It takes him a second to realize that she’s staring at him, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “But maybe it would keep people from thinking you’re a liability,” she muses. “The way you look now, unarmed and unequipped, it’s clear that you’re weak. But maybe if you wear that  _ armor _ , you’ll blend in a little more.” 

“What-whatever you want, C-Carla,” he says. “Armor or-or not, I’m always safe w-with you.” 

* * *

This was the worst case scenario.

They were almost to New Reno, just on the outskirts, when a group of mercenaries surrounded their car and forced them to stop. Recognizing the symbol on their chests, that of the Bishop family, and seeing the way they held their guns, Carla hadn’t hesitated to start shooting. She’s spun the car to a stop, kicking up a cloud of dust. 

Lenny is left alone in the passenger seat, hunkered down as to avoid any stray crossfire. Carla is outside, tearing up a bloody storm. Lenny’s so used to this, he almost doesn’t react when his car door opens. 

Until he looks up and realizes that the battle’s not over yet. And that the person in front of him is  _ not  _ Carla. A burly woman grabs him and he shrieks, trying to kick her away. 

“Carla!” He screams, struggling as the woman pulls him out of the car and wraps an arm around his waist, pinning his arms to his side. His heart is pounding and his mind is alight with panic, remembering the last time that something like this happened. But instead of Carla having the chance to plan a rescue, they have to deal with this hostage situation  _ right now _ . 

Carla whirls at his yell, already raising her gun to point at his captor. But the woman holding him is faster, pressing a pistol under his chin. 

“Not another move, or I blow his fucking brains out,” the woman warns. She nods at the two other remaining members of her team, who come over to flank her. 

“Nice work, Ann,” one of them mutters.

Carla’s seething, her hand clenching and unclenching around her gun. She twitches, just the smallest flinch of her arm, and Ann presses the barrel of the gun into his neck, making him wince. Carla’s too angry for words, an animalistic growl tearing out of her throat. She alternates between looking at Lenny, his captor, and the other mercenaries. 

Carla swallows hard and lowers her gun, but not all of the way. Instead of pointing it at Ann’s head, she angles it to point directly at Lenny. Specifically, his leg. He knows this contingency plan, though he doesn’t like it: shoot him in the leg and make him collapse so she can finish off whoever’s threatening him. 

“I said lower your weapon, or I kill your pet ghoul,” Ann threatens, tightening her hold on Lenny. 

He squeaks, tears springing to his eyes. He  _ hates  _ this plan. “C-Carla,” he whimpers. He’s already been shot once by her, he doesn’t want to repeat the experience. He knows the reasoning: being injured is better than being dead. That doesn’t make it any less upsetting to be shot by  _ her _ . 

Ann lowers her head to whisper in his ear. The woman holding him captive is a good foot taller than him. “Beg for her to save you, ghoul freak.” When he doesn’t say anything, she lifts him up so his toes just barely brush the dry grass, her arm tightening painfully around his ribs. The hot gun digs into his flaking skin.

“Carla,” he gasps, blinking back tears that threaten to fall. “Please-please don’t, C-Carla,” he hears Ann hiss in triumph and something in his stomach churns. There’s nothing he hates more than giving in to people that want to hurt him. “C-Carla, please don’t sh-shoot me in my right leg a-again,” he stammers. 

“It can cause ch-ch-ch-” He becomes aware of everybody’s eyes staring at him, and he clams up, his nervousness overcoming his resolve. “-ch-chronic stress in that l-limb,” he trails away. 

“What the fuck,” one of the mercenaries mutters. Lenny feels the arms around him loosen slightly, setting him back on his unsteady feet. The gun isn’t digging into his chin anymore. 

Carla suddenly laughs, startling the mercenaries and Lenny. Her arm moves until her pistol is pointing at his left leg instead. “Thanks for the tip, Len.” Then she cocks her hip and moves her arm up until her weapon is pointed at-

“Right-handed, C-Carla,” Lenny blurts, and Carla laughs again, moving over to aim at his left arm instead. 

“What the  _ fuck  _ is wrong with the two of you?” Ann demands, shaking Lenny. Her arm holding the pistol lowers from his head. “Are you-”

Carla sees her chance, and she takes it. No longer pointing a gun at Lenny, Ann no longer poses a threat. Lenny flinches as Ann’s head explodes in a shower of blood and gore. His weak legs give out, and he sinks to the ground as Carla handily takes care of the other two mercenaries. 

“Len,” she says, kneeling in front of him and pulling out a rag, wiping some blood off his cheek. “Oh, Len, I was so worried.” She enfolds him in an embrace. He says nothing, digging his fingers into the cracks in her combat armor and tucking his head under her chin. 

In this instant, nothing makes him feel safer than being with her.

* * *

They don’t often travel with other people; it usually turns out bad. 

Cassidy had met his grim end at Carla’s hands. And since then, she’s been reluctant to allow anyone else to travel with them. Dogmeat and Skynet are fine, of course. Easy to control, easier to just leave behind if the going gets rough. Goris had left on his own in the middle of the night without saying goodbye. 

Now, faced with a scrawny teenager, Lenny can see that Carla’s torn. On one hand, Myron would be an excellent source of chems. In addition, taking him would hurt the Mordino’s production efficiency. However, it would mean one extra person to take care of. 

“Ugh, you’re right,” Myron says, “maybe if I leave, they’ll see how valuable I  _ really  _ am to them!”

One very  _ whiny  _ person to take care of. 

In the end, though, Carla lets him join them. Myron trails them out of the Stables, chattering up a storm. To Lenny’s surprise, Carla pulls a pistol out of the trunk and presses it into Myron’s hands. 

“Less talking, more helping,” she hisses. “If you turn out to be useless to me, I’ll drop you at the next settlement.” 

Myron does  _ not  _ turn out to be a good fighter. He runs from battle more often than not, whining about the slightest injury for hours on end. But Carla doesn’t even get the chance to abandon him somewhere: the wasteland does her work for her. 

Normally, Carla can emerge relatively unscathed from a fight with a couple of deathclaws. She’s got her routine down: shoot, dodge, shoot, dodge, reload and repeat. However, Myron is not so skilled. 

A claw rakes across his chest and the boy stumbles, dropping his gun. Before either Carla or Lenny have time to react, the monster picks him up and buries its fanged teeth into his neck. Myron’s dead before Lenny has time to gasp in horror. 

He doesn’t fully process it until the battle is over, until Carla’s staring down at the corpse, face blank. Then she shrugs, holsters her gun, and turns away. She looks over at Lenny irritably as she starts the engine. 

“Stop that, Len,” she says, tossing a clean rag at him. He realizes that tears are streaming down his cheeks. “He was a fucking pathetic fighter. He had it coming.” 

_ He was just a kid,  _ Lenny wants to say, but he keeps his mouth shut, wiping his cheeks with the rag and trying to forget what had just happened.  _ He didn’t deserve any of this. We could at least stay and bury him _ , he wants to suggest. A tiny voice in the back of his mind wonders if Carla had planned this all along, had taken Myron with them with the intention to kill him one way or another.

They don’t travel with anyone else again. Alone is better for them.

* * *

Lenny doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. But he’s done  _ something  _ bad, because Carla’s temper is rising faster than a Geiger counter in the middle of the Glow. 

It started when he woke up one morning and found Carla already awake, prodding at the dying embers of a campfire. She didn’t so much as look at him before telling him, in a tight voice that forbade argument, that they were taking a detour to the NCR before heading up to New Reno. 

Two days later, he’s woken in the middle of the night. Carla is up, tearing through the contents of the Highwayman’s trunk. She’s muttering something under her breath and doesn’t notice him sit up. He rubs his arm, which is covered by a bandage. They had been attacked by raiders the day before, and one of them had been a bad shot with their machine gun. Instead of hitting Carla, one of the bullets had brushed his arm. 

Carla is throwing things across their campsite, slamming flares and pieces of junk on the ground. Every line in her body draws a big flashing sign that screams ‘danger!’. She’s hunched over an object in the trunk, frozen as she stares at it. From his vantage point, he sees the handle of the suitcase that houses the GECK. He quietly lays back down and pulls the blanket of his sleeping pack to his chin, closing his eyes and trying to drown out Carla’s growled curses. 

The rest of the week is the same. Lenny tries to coax her into eating dinner with him. For the past few days, she had tossed him something to eat and then walked away. When he quietly asks her to join him, voice barely louder than a whisper, he shrinks under the force of her glare. She says nothing, steely eyes boring into his own, until he lowers his gaze and murmurs an apology. 

Then, as if things couldn’t get worse, they’re attacked by geckos just south of New Reno. The bad thing isn’t the tornado of violence that Carla leaves in her path: it’s that the killing spree is over too soon. There’s only a couple of animals, and they pose her no problem. When it’s over, Carla is left shaking in a circle of death, teeth gritted. 

“Going to the Gym,” she growls, throwing herself into the driver’s seat of the Highwayman. She slams the door, making Lenny flinch. He has to remind himself to breathe during the short ride to New Reno. Their car skids to a halt and Carla hardly waits for the engine to turn off before she grabs her boxing gloves and wrenches the car door open. 

Lenny has to jog to catch up to her. She barely glances over at him, movements jerky and stiff, before she grabs his wrist, towing him along behind her. This side of Carla scares him, the part of her that can turn in the blink of an eye. One moment fine, the next moment completely eviscerating an enemy. The last thing he wants is that attention turned towards him. 

The Jungle Gym is nearly empty at this time of day. Stuart Little looks over when the doors slam open, bouncing against the walls with a sharp cracking sound. 

“Carla-” he starts, visibly nervous at the raw anger that seeping out of every pore of her body. 

“Give me a match. Right now,” she demands. 

Stuart raises his hands placatingly. “We don’t have anyone right now-”

“Then fucking  _ find  _ someone. Preferably someone who’ll give me a  _ real  _ fight,” she snarls. 

Lenny is torn. On one hand, he  _ really  _ doesn’t want to draw Carla’s attention right now. On the other hand, though, Carla recently broke a rib. It had mostly healed, enough for non-strenuous fights, but he wasn’t sure it would hold up during a serious match. He swallows hard; the alternative to not speaking up could be that Carla seriously injures herself. And he’s not sure if he could be proud of himself if he failed to protect her in the only way he could. 

“C-C-Carla,” he whispers, voice barely audible. Her head snaps towards him, grip on his wrist tightening until he winces. “You’re still-you’re still injured, I-I’m just not sure-”

Stuart gasps as Carla backhands him. Lenny rubs his cheek and tries not to feel surprised. But Carla doesn’t say anything to him, doesn’t start yelling at him, and he hates this more. At least then, she can get everything out, and he can just speak when she prompts him to. 

“I’m sorry,” he whimpers, “but I-I love you, C-Carla, and I- I’m just worried about you…” He trails off, shrinking from her as she lets go of his wrist and grabs the front of his shirt. She shoves him down onto a bench. Then he flinches as her bag lands at his side with a heavy thud. With one final glare at him, she turns on her heel and stalks towards the punching bags lining the walls of the gym. 

She attacks the bag with a ferocity that makes the other patrons quietly edge away from that corner of the room. With an awful ripping sound, the bag tears under her knuckles, soft filling spilling onto the floor. Carla barely seems to notice, giving the contents a frustrated kick before moving on to another bag. 

Lenny curls his fingers around the edge of the bench, staring down at his feet. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with Carla, why she’s suddenly snapped so violently. He just wants it to be over, he just wants her to calm down so they can go back to the way they normally are. 

He loses track of time just sitting there. At one point, Stuart Little brings him a bottle of water, patting him on the shoulder with a sympathetic frown. The water goes untouched, sitting next to him on the bench. He’ll save it for Carla, he decides. He peeks up at her: she’s drawn a knife from God-knows-where, and is tearing into the bag she had ripped earlier. She’s straddling it like she would a body, stabbing the blade into the fabric and dragging it down. He shivers. 

Hours later, he doesn’t realize he’s dozed off until he’s awoken by a soft kiss on his forehead. He drowsily cracks his eyes open, confused to find himself  _ not  _ in the Jungle Gym. They’re in their guest room in the Wright mansion. 

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Carla teases him. She’s relaxed again, sitting next to Lenny on their bed. Confused, he sits up and looks around. One thing that catches his attention is the pile of bloody clothing by the door. Carla’s changed into a tanktop and pair of pajama pants. He also notices that she’s injured, hands bloody and arms scratched up. “Wrights had a couple of hits they needed done,” she explains. “One of them was a little too fierce.”

“Let me see,” he whispers, gently pulling her arm into his lap. She lets him, leaning against his shoulder, soft hair tickling his skin. He finds a first aid kid next to him on the bed. He opens it and starts cleaning her wounds. They have a good supply of stimpacks, so he questioningly looks at her for permission to use one. She lazily nods. 

“Everything was wrong, Len,” she says without needing to be prompted. Her voice is quiet. “They took fucking  _ everything _ , Len. Everything. And I feel like I’m running out of time to save them. And I just couldn’t  _ take it anymore _ .” She thumps her fist on the bedspread. “It’s not enough, nothing I do is  _ enough _ . I can’t stop the Enclave,  _ nobody  _ can stop the Enclave. I can’t do  _ anything  _ to get them back!”

He finishes wrapping her hand. He takes it in his own, his bony gnarled fingers a sharp contrast to her smooth bandaged ones. He doesn’t know what to say. This situation had turned before his very eyes; he had been there when Carla had found the GECK, he had been there when she had returned to the pillaged Arroyo. He had silently watched while she had torn out chunks of her own hair, her screaming sobs echoing off the canyon walls. He had watched her heart crack into a million shards of black glass, and he had watched her grasp those cold scraps and try to make something real out of them. And he had watched her fail, he had watched her grow as cold as the corpses under the hot Arroyo sun. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” she bitterly says. “I can’t do  _ anything  _ anymore, Len.”

“Yes y-you can,” he murmurs almost automatically. He squeezes her hand. “You can- you can do anything y-you want, C-Carla.” 

She looks up at him, eyes blank and unbelieving. “Do you really think so, Len?” 

He nods. He’s run out of words to say. He looks out the window: the sun is setting. Gently, he guides Carla to lay down on the bed next to him. They lie like they always do: Carla enfolding him in an embrace, him tucking himself under her chin and intertwining his legs with hers. 

When he wakes in the morning, she’s gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I do a part two with her return from the Oil Rig? 
> 
> Current status of the companions in this AU:  
> Alive: Lenny, Dogmeat, Skynet  
> Dead: Cassidy, Myron, implied Marcus (during the Broken Hills revolt against the supermutants)  
> Left of their own volition before the going got bad: Goris  
> Not in this AU b/c Carla would never be able to get them/doesn't want them: Miria, Davin, Sulik, Vic, the dogs (K-9, Robodog, Pariah Dog)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A breakdown.

Lenny doesn’t want to believe it. She’s gone, Carla’s gone, and she left him behind.

She’s just stepped out for a second, he tries to convince himself. She’ll be back before nightfall. That hope is the only thing that stops him from going out to find her. He needs to stay here. She’d be so worried if she came back to find him gone. 

There’s a knock on the door, some time later. Hours, maybe. There’s a clock in the room, but he’s been ignoring it. His heart soars, but then it plummets. Carla wouldn’t knock. 

“It’s lunchtime,” Keith Wright says, cracking the door open. He fully opens it when he sees Lenny sitting on the rumpled bed. “I brought you something.” 

Carla had asked the Wrights to take care of him. That means she’s gone for good. She’s not coming back. She didn’t even leave a note. 

Keith sets a tray of food on the bedside table. “You’re welcome to come out and join us, you know. You-” 

Lenny abruptly stands and grabs the tray. He throws it against the wall because that’s what Carla would do, the metal and plastic and glass crashing to the floor with a clatter. Even as he does it, he still feels empty. But there’s a small part of him that feels just the tiniest bit better. 

“Whoa, what are you doing-”

He gets upset all over again at the mess on the floor, and he slides to his knees and starts trying to put the pieces in one pile so he can clean them up, because that’s what he would do if Carla was here, but she’s not, but he’s still going to try and do it, because she would be disappointed if she came back and found the room a mess. 

A pair of burly arms wraps around him and picks him up, dragging him away from the shards of glass on the floor. Lenny doesn’t look up, doesn’t struggle, doesn’t bother caring about anyone right now. He just stares at the glass and his hands, and feels almost comforted by the blood he sees there. 

“God, Chris, she’s going to fucking  _ kill  _ us if we leave him like this,” Keith yells, and he sounds far away but Lenny doesn’t know if that’s because Keith’s out of the room or because Lenny can’t hear anything over the rushing in his ears. 

He doesn’t listen to the voices, until he does. 

“What the hell is going on here?” A female voice says, and Lenny perks up a little. “I thought you were bringing him a meal, Keith, what in the world is taking you so long?” 

The voices discuss something in low tones, the arms around him still tight but not painful, heavy and warm like a nice blanket. Whoever’s restraining him gently pulls him down so he’s sitting on the bed. Something steaming and fragrant is put to his lips. 

“Here, honey, drink up,” the female voice coaxes, and it’s the wrong pitch, too old, too nice. Carla wouldn’t call him “honey”. He doesn’t do anything, doesn’t move to drink anything, keeps his mouth shut tight. Then there’s more anxious murmuring above him. “Len,” the woman says, and it’s close enough that he can pretend. 

“Yes, C-Carla,” he whispers, throat sore from lack of disuse or screaming or just because he’s a ghoul and that’s the way his life is. He leans forward and obediently sips at the tea, a strong herbal concoction that warms and calms him. 

“Fuck, he’s insane,” a new male voice hisses, the one holding Lenny, “she made him fucking  _ crazy _ , Mom-” 

“Now stop that talk, Chris,” the woman snaps. “Keith, go and fetch someone to clean this, and grab something to bandage up his hands while you're at it.” 

His eyes are drooping, consciousness quickly slipping out of his grasp. The tea, he realizes. They drugged him. He doesn't raise a fuss, just lets himself sink lower and lower.

It's not like he wanted to be awake anyways. 

* * *

When Lenny wakes up, it's some time of day. He doesn't look at the clock. The window is closed; he doesn't move to open it. 

There's a new tray of food on the bedside table. A note is placed next to the dish, reading: ‘please don't throw this one.’ Lenny sits up, wincing at the creak of his joints. He doesn't want to eat. He doesn't feel hungry. He doesn't feel anything. 

But Carla would be concerned if he didn't eat, so he makes an effort to nibble at some jerky. It's enough to stop him from feeling so lightheaded and sick. He eats a few chunks of fried iguana and sips some water. He doesn't know if it's drugged, and he doesn't care. 

His hands have been bandaged, a neat job from someone who knew what they were doing. When he's done eating, he's not sure what to do. His normal schedule is as follows:

Wake up next to Carla. Eat breakfast with Carla, something quick. Get on the road, or start their mission for the day, or maintain their equipment, with Carla. Eat lunch. Eat dinner. Go to bed next to Carla. Sometimes he sleeps, most of the time he doesn't. Rinse and repeat. 

Here's what he does now: he curls up on the bed, buries his face into a pillow, Carla's pillow, and cries until he's so worn out he almost falls asleep again. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s useless without her; he’s always known that. 

There's a knock at the door. This time, he knows it's not Carla. Lenny gets up and gets to the door in time to open it before the other person does. 

“Oh good, you're awake,” Chris Wright says, shifting from foot to foot in the doorway.

Lenny says nothing. People always said that ghouls looked like zombies, and he certainly feels like one now.

“We got this, a late night express courier brought it, it's for you.” Chris presses a thick envelope into his hands. 

It’s from Carla, he knows it. He's already tearing it open, bandaged fingers fumbling with the paper he pulls out. 

> Len,
> 
> I'm getting on the tanker now, but I wanted you to know where I was. I'm going to kill those Enclave bastards, once and for all. Just stay with the Wrights, you’ll be safe there.
> 
> In case I don't come back within a week, I've enclosed some money. Have the Wrights find you a few guards to hire, and go to the NCR. Tandi owes me a favor, she'll get you set up with something. 
> 
> See you soon. I love you.
> 
> Carla

She's coming back. She's safe. 

Lenny takes a deep breath, the letter slipping from his hands and onto the bedspread, the letter thick with money next to him. 

But she's not sure. She's in danger. 

The money taunts him. He picks up the envelope and has the fleeting thought that he should burn this money, get rid of it, because he's not going to need it, because Carla's coming back soon. And when she gets back, she's going to need it, so he tucks it into the top compartment of his bag so he doesn't have to look at it. 

“Are you going to be alright?” Chris gruffly asks. One of the older brothers in the Wright family, Chris exudes toughness, all piercings and sharp hair and scuffed-up leather jacket. But he still has a soft heart. “Sorry about drugging you before. Mom was just worried that you were going to hurt yourself.” He checks his watch. “I know ghouls don't need that much sleep, but maybe you could try? It would make the time pass quicker.” 

“T-Thanks,” he murmurs, staring down at the letter sitting on the carpet floor. “I’ll try.” 

* * *

He looked at the clock, and instantly regretted it. Because now he can't look away. 

He'd slept lightly for a couple hours after receiving the letter. It's just past 4 in the morning. How long is Carla going to take? How long is too long? 

Thirty six long minutes later, he gets sick of just laying on the bed staring up at the ceiling. There's nothing to do, he's got nothing to do. He gets up. His backpack is sitting by the door. 

There are no weapons to clean, no wounds to attend to, but maybe something in his pack needs mending. Halfway through dumping his belongings on the floor, he spots a tear forming on the seam of his bag.

Perfect. He finishes strewing everything he owns all over the room. Then he spends fourteen minutes patching the tear, then another five searching for more holes. Ten minutes to fix another, eight more to reinforce a spot that's getting thin. 

Once he's done with that, he methodically cleans and organizes his equipment, double-checking the contents of his first aid kit, the bulkiest part of his pack. Extra canteens of water, provisions, extra pairs of clothing. Twenty minutes darning his winter socks. He could have done it in ten, but he took his time. It's not like he's got anything better to do. 

Once he's done, he considers taking it all out and doing it again. Maybe he needs to recheck his first aid kit. But he sighs and leaves it alone, kicking his pack into a corner. The envelope with money is now shoved into a deep inner pocket; he's not going to need it. 

It's almost six o’clock. The Wright mansion starts to wake up. 

Only two hours. Lenny clenches his hands to stop them from shaking. How much longer is it going to take? It’s only been twenty four hours since he’d woken to find Carla gone. Only one day. How many more until she comes back? Until she doesnt? 

He paces. He picks at loose threads on the quilt, twisting them around his fingers. Maybe he should rebandage his hands. He abandons the idea as soon as he thinks it; it would be too hard to do himself, and would only cause him pain. That makes him reconsider the idea, then he mentally slaps himself. 

What is he thinking? What’s wrong with him? 

A knock on the door. He picks up his shoe and chucks it at the door with a satisfying thud. He’s sick of seeing people that aren’t Carla. 

Alone again. For how long? He lies down on the bed with his back to the clock, resisting the urge to turn around. He closes his eyes, but he can’t sleep, so he opens them again. He lies there, staring at the gritty wall. Someone’s opened his window at one point, just a crack, and light is slowly starting to stream into the room, creating a bright strip on the floor. 

A knock on the door, sometime later. He doesn’t move. 

“Are you...awake?” Keith asks, cautiously poking his head in the room. Lenny nods. The movement shifts the quilt under his cheek. “Alright, well, Mom- Ethyl said that it’s not good for you to be cooped up in your room all day. Do you want to come out and have breakfast with us?” 

No, he doesn’t want to. But what comes out of mouth is a quiet “yes” instead.

“O-Okay,” Keith stutters, surprised at his quick response. He leads Lenny to a main dining room, where several of the other Wright children are already sitting. “Here, sit here next to me and Chris.” 

Lenny does what he’s told, obediently sits down and stares at the cracked but clean dish in front of him. There’s a fork and a spoon, but no knife. A couple slices of mutfruit, two small slabs of cooked Brahmin meat, a small pile of rice. He’s glad they didn’t give him more; he’s not particularly hungry. Eating on the road all the time has given him a small appetite. 

But Carla had always given him food. Carla wanted him to eat, despite his weak protest that ghouls didn’t have to eat as much as humans. He manages to get through a few pieces of fruit, a couple good mouthfuls of rice, and one of the meat slabs. When he stops, it’s not because he’s full. It’s because he’s tired. He’s bored. Why does he have to keep going through the motions when it doesn’t even matter?

“Oh good, he’s eating. Here, honey, have some tea.” Ethyl Wright places a small cup in front of him. “It’s not drugged this time, don’t worry.” 

“I w-wish it was,” he blurts without thinking, his eyes on the clock that reads half past seven. Stunned silence around him, and he freezes, realizing that he’s slipped up, he said something wrong. “I-I’m sorry-” 

“What do you mean, you wish it was drugged?” Chris quietly asks, one hand on his shoulder keeping him pinned down in his seat, no matter how much Lenny wants to run in this moment, get away from the furious eyes boring into him. 

“I just don’t w-want to wait a-anymore, I just don’t want-want to be  _ awake  _ anymore, I can’t- I can’t stand it, please-please, just, please just knock m-me out, do  _ something _ , please-” He’s blubbering, voice shrill, causing a scene, and he wishes that Carla was here to calm him down, he just wishes that Carla was here at all, “please, I’m sorry, sorry, I-I’m sorry-” 

Chris is pulling him up and out of his seat, and he curls into himself, head in his hands. He doesn’t want to look at an empty space and not see Carla anymore, he doesn’t want to hear a voice and have it not be hers- 

He feels like he’s going to pass out, he can’t breathe. He tries holding his breath to chase that light-headed feeling, but he’s being pulled along too fast that he doesn’t get the chance, his attempts being broken when they turn down another hallway. 

A soft chair is behind his legs, and he collapses into it, pressing his face into the upholstery and wrapping his arms around his knees. There are people talking urgently, not-Carla people, so he doesn’t really care to listen. 

“-a total mess without her, Orville, completely inconsolable-” 

“-can’t come back and find him like this, we need to do something-” 

“-high risk of addiction in abuse victims, not to mention his depression, I didn’t feel good giving him something before, I don’t want to overdo it now-” 

And on and on and on, and he’s already sick of it. Either give him what he wants, what he needs, or just be done with it. All he wants is to fall asleep. And he doesn’t want to wake up until Carla’s back, no longer how long that takes. And if she doesn’t come back…

A hand on his shoulder gently turns him so he faces the room, and he lets them, his body limp and tired, he’s so tired. 

“Here, we can only give you a half dose, but it should be enough to help you sleep,” a gruff voice, Orville Wright, says, pressing a small pill into Lenny’s hand. He downs it without a second of hesitation, dry, as if that would make it work faster. 

“Thank y-you,” he croaks, and then closes his eyes. He’s already drifting away when he feels a pair of arms pick him up, his head lolling against their shoulder as he finally falls asleep. 

* * *

He wakes up and tries to fight it. He doesn’t want to face the emptiness of being alone.

“Come on, wake up, Carla’s coming back!” A voice, Chris, is shouting at him, shaking his shoulders. 

Carla. He bolts up, almost hitting Chris with how fast he moves. Chris pushes a fresh pair of clothing into his arms and leaves the room. Lenny almost trips getting up too hastily, quickly shedding his clothes and shoving them on top of his bag, stumbling into pant legs, getting tangled in arm holes. He throws the quilt over the disheveled bed to make it look more presentable, then steps into his shoes. 

The door opens, and Lenny’s heart soars at the absence of a knock beforehand. 

Carla’s back. She’s standing in front of him. Her bag drops to the floor with a clank, her arms raising to catch him as he barrels into her, a sob rising in his throat though he had told himself he wouldn’t cry. 

“Len, oh Len,” she’s repeating his name, and she sounds like she’s crying a little too. She reeks of blood and fire, a tangy oil smell lingering that means she’s been wearing power armor, and he hugs her tight and breathes it all in, buries himself in her hair, coarse and thick. 

The next minutes are a blur, and he’s fine with that. They fetch his pack and say goodbye to the Wrights, then rejoin a group of people that Lenny doesn’t know and doesn’t care about. He’s only got eyes for Carla, he only breathes for Carla, he’s nothing without her, he’s never been anything without her and he doesn’t want to be.


End file.
